


O'er His Heart a Shadow

by DovahDoes



Series: John/Nuada Meet-Cutes [7]
Category: Hellboy (Movies 2004-2008)
Genre: (not particularly detailed for the last 2 tbh), (which is honestly kinda canon as per the comics...), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amoral BPRD, Angst, Captivity, Child Abuse, Dark, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae!John, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Protective Nuada, Soulmates, The OCxOC is for John's family, Unseelie!John, also Nuala/Abe is implied, also there is very briefly mentioned, but only a teeny tiny bit here and there (with more implied for the future), or my version of it anyway..., specifically though it's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-27 04:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21386164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DovahDoes/pseuds/DovahDoes
Summary: The Unseelie fae royal family loses their estranged crown prince (who'd fled the kingdom years ago)andhis young son, who the king and queen never had the chance to meet.Meanwhile, young John goes out hunting for his missing father, leaving the woods for the first time in his life.  Not long after encountering civilization, he ends up being shuffled around the foster care system until the BPRD (who has been watching from the wings for several years) catches up to him.  The amoral organization's Midwestern chapter then does its damnedest to unravel the cause of his mysteriously manifesting injuries.Lastly, Nuada and Nuala's twin-bond has all but dissipated since Nuala's soulbond began to form.  However, while she is content to wait for the fates to bring them together organically, her brother isfarless patient while waiting to meethissoulmate.  Nuada shirks Bethmooran tradition for the sake of his Bonded, whose torture he can see and feel mirrored on his own skin: if his mate can't come tohim,hewill go to his mate.*ORJohn is (apparently) Unseelie fae royalty, is held captive by the BPRD, and Nuada (eventually) seeks him out- waiting be damned.
Relationships: John Myers/Nuada, Original Character/Original Character
Series: John/Nuada Meet-Cutes [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069391
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Title comes from Edgar Allen Poe's "Eldorado". Please go read it-- it's short and very much one of my favourite things. :] ))  
__
> 
> Back at it again with another JxN meet-cute that nobody ever asked for, and that I am _tired_ of looking at. haha.
> 
> So yeah-- this one fought me until the bitter end, so I'm posting it in its current form before it drives up a wall from editing and rewriting for a 3rd go-around. @_@

John Ciarán, comes into a world that is quiet, wooded, and green. Pretty much all he has is his name (“’John’ means ‘the gods are gracious’ in the language of this area,” his father gently says to the slumbering newborn, “and ‘Ciarán’… is a traditional name from my homeland— both fit you perfectly,”) and the long, gold necklace he will always recall wearing since he can remember.

His first and best memories are of time spent with his father: piggyback rides along tree-lined trails, late-night stargazing on frosty, winter evenings, shadow puppet shows where every shape seems to come alive on the wooden walls of his home, and boundless sweet embraces and loving words at every turn.

Those somewhat charmed (if lonely) early days start losing their sunny quality when John begins developing inexplicable tiny cuts or bruises two or three times a year. Nothing at all precipitates their appearance, and their timing is utterly unpredictable, which only serves to confuse and unsettle the young child. Thankfully, his doting father will kiss them better, and by the next day, they’re always gone.

Within a few months, the rarely recurring incidents are mostly forgotten in the face of daily routines and tasks. Trips out into the woods to look for food— sourced by both flora _and _fauna alike, thanks to the toddler’s knowledgeable parent— trump worrying about the occasional unexplained abrasion or bruise.

Eventually, it becomes a normal part of life, somehow, to the both of them: John not knowing anything different, and his father torn between the desire to find outside help for his child and the fear of being found _by _outside help while trying to do so. Thus, inaction becomes the course of choice for the curious problem.

And all the while, time passes, there, in Myer’s Forest.

*

John is five when his father dies— or disappears, rather, as far as he knows.

After leaving to gather food, he never comes home to their hidden haven in an unassuming, little old wooden cottage on an unkempt, out-of-the-way plot of land. The morning after his father leaves, the young child begins to feel ill.

At some point, the pendant on John’s necklace starts to feel very cold on his fever-clammy chest. For hours thereafter, he can hardly muster the energy to do much more than lie there and shudder through bouts of teeth-chattering chills.

The five-year-old feels very sick for almost the entire day, hence his resolution to stay in bed until his head stops hurting, his eyes don’t ache, and his skin doesn’t feel like it’s being scuffed all over with sand from the nearby riverbank with every move he makes. During this time, his fevered mind conjures up strange, nonsensical dreams that flee his consciousness almost as soon as they arrive.

In his most frequented dreamscape, he walks around between white and gold trees that grow so tall he cannot see their tops. Running his hands over textured, alabaster bark, he openly stares at pale-haired people moving about in long, beautiful clothes that take no notice of him.

After this evening, it will be many, many years before he dreams of Bethmoora again.

*

_ **Kingdom of Bethmoora, The Same Day…** _

“Nuada?” Nuala asks, leaning nearer to her brother’s hunched over figure in concern. “What’s the matter?”

Running a clammy hand over his perspiration dappled forehead and pushing back the hair that has fallen into his face, the younger of the pair looks up with fever-bright eyes, worry clear in their amber depths.

“I… am not sure. I retrieved a document from the North Wing’s library, and then… a wave of— of _weakness _washed over me. Or rather, I found my strength being sapped. That was some time ago, though, and I now feel mostly recovered.”

First gathering her long dress and robes up, Nuala crouches down next to the plush chair her brother is now beginning to right himself in. She lifts a hand up and hovers it over his forearm, asking permission with a tilt of her head.

When Nuada lifts one brow slightly, the elder twin flexes her fingers, closes her eyes, and narrows her focus in on her brother’s entire being, searching for a possible cause for his strange episode. What she expects to sense is some sort of physical ailment or maybe even the remnants of some sort of malicious hex from an unknown enemy, but what she finds is far more intriguing.

Once her eyes open, she smiles beatifically at her curious (and still rather concerned-looking) sibling, excitedly grabbing his hands in hers.

“Brother, it’s your _mate_: the link to them is in its first stage of becoming stronger. They likely just happen to be ill, at the moment, and so you shared some of that condition— just as you and I would have before my own mate-bond’s formation ended our connection.”

Suddenly feeling more invigorated than fatigued at the positive news, Nuada stands up with only a brief wobble and then offers his sister a hand-up from her crouched position.

“That… that makes sense. I will speak to a healer, still, but thank you, Sister,” he says, before pausing for a few long moments, continuing in a quieter tone. “Truth be told, I had almost begun to think that I might go on forever without having the chance to meet my other half.”

Nuala turns a sympathetic look at him as she links their arms together at their elbows, the way she often would when they were children.

“This is perhaps the best news I could imagine receiving, today: your insight was invaluable, Nuala.”

“Of course, Nuada,” she replies lightly, gliding along beside him down a long corridor. “Now, let us hope that we both are able to finally _meet _our mates soon, too.”

*

_ **Myer’s Forest, Missouri, USA** _

Late in the night, John’s fever breaks suddenly, and when the next day dawns bright and early, its light is met with bright, moss-green eyes and a determined spirit. Looking around his humble little abode, he doesn’t see anything he wants to bring with him on his hunt for his missing guardian, except maybe some food.

With two apples, a pear, and the last third of a loaf of bread in a little bag he slings over his shoulder, John does his best to tie his shoulder-length hair back at the nape of his neck, and then sets out into the woods toward some of the places he knows his father frequents.

He has no luck finding his dad anywhere nearby the cabin, and so ends up walking along a larger trail in the forest until it eventually meets with a little dirt road. For a few days, he walks along the narrow, remote road (sleeping just off to its side at nighttime), and eventually _that _road meets another cleanly cut and paved one, where the occasional big, loud vehicle rambles by.

Eventually, a nice old couple with questions that are as concerned as their faces takes him to the nearest police station in their weathered pickup truck, and things begin to look up for a little bit. The small-town police department sends him home with the same couple who’d found him by the side of the road for however long it will take to hear from whichever appropriate party has been contacted in a distant government office.

The Wallaces, whose children (and grandchildren) all live far away on either the east or west coast, are pleased as punch to have a little one running about the house for the next few weeks or so.

*

It’s only one month later that the social worker from the state walks into Mr. and Mrs. Wallace’s house and has him start packing up his meager belongings in a small backpack the old couple had bought for him just a week ago. As he walks past the kind retirees, he waves sadly, not much for talking while still heartsick and grieving his absent father.

As a ward of the state, he ends up being shuffled around every couple of months to a new foster family. He doesn’t like the inherent chaos of that fact, because many of the parents seem not to even want him around at all, which is quite a departure from his previous two experiences with more devoted caretakers. Most of his guardians don’t even notice when one of his mystery wounds appears, though, and he _does _like that, because he can pretend that he’s as normal as any of his foster siblings or other kids he meets.

Over the next few years he _does_ end up in the hospital a few times: almost always for his randomly appearing injuries, and only once because of a drunken foster parent whose temper tended to peak when intoxicated. (Pretty decent odds, really, for a child in an underfunded and overtaxed foster care system.)

In any case, after _that_ aforementioned hospital visit, John goes to what he will someday remember as his favourite foster family of all: the Dawsons.

Compared to his previous homes, they are almost bewilderingly caring and attentive, and seem to _genuinely_ want for John to open up and feel comfortable around them, which is a breath of fresh air for the somewhat introverted eight-year-old.

Their aforementioned attentiveness, however, is what has them noticing the magically appearing (and disappearing) wounds that John has long since taken to automatically concealing over the past several years.

Their being caring has them sending him straight to a doctor the first time they definitively know of an injury manifesting. Then, in a stroke of bad luck, over the next few months, the frequency of the wounds’ appearing increases, and so too does his family’s concern as well as his visits to the doctor’s office.

It only takes a handful of these visits (and a quick, understandable check-in from Child Protective Services) for a slow-moving wheel to be set into motion.

During one of his vaccine catch-up appointments with the family physician, a well-prepared nurse manages to grab the already recording camcorder just in time to zoom in on a huge, long bruise that begins to rapidly darken over his bicep and down to his forearm. The nurse treats it once it’s fully come in, and delivers the vaccine in his other arm.

Afterwards, as she secures a colourful band-aid on John’s upper arm, she asks his foster mother (who’s sitting in a nearby chair) if they have permission to send the video off to a specialist at the next closest children’s hospital.

Having already seen John run through the gamut of blood tests without any yielding results diagnosis-wise, the matron of the Dawson family wholeheartedly approves of sending off the tape to an expert who might have more luck in diagnosing her newest child.

The little family practice bundles off the tape and also includes any clinical notes and photographs of some of his previous inexplicable contusions, lacerations, sprains, and whatever else they have managed to see in the past before the accompanying accelerated healing phase would begin.

And, _technically_, the treasure trove of information _does_ go to an expert, if a completely different one than any of them intended or expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciarán- Little Dark One (_or_ Little Dark-Haired One); pronounced like 'Kieran' (same name, diff spelling)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a lil in-between chapter...

The Bureau for Paranormal Research & Defense is (clandestinely) recognized by the United States government and is even considered to be adjacent to a few of its own intelligence agencies. However official of a secret organization the BPRD is, though, its budget is spread amongst its many international branches and it can be a bit of a crapshoot as to exactly how that money is distributed.

Lately, the U.S. branches have been relatively well-funded, and thus, their new PSP (Potentially Supernatural Phenomena) monitoring system has been primed to find as many odd goings-on as is possible across the country. It is this positive turn for the secretive organization that makes for an equally negative turn for John, as the evidence of _something_ paranormal-adjacent taking root in his small Missouri town has been accumulating over most of his lifetime.

In fact, there is a bulky, well-maintained file filled with news reports and articles about curious sightings and occurrences in a certain section of forest that had abruptly ceased only a few years ago. A sub-folder within that larger file only continued to grow, however, following the sudden appearance of a certain enigmatic little boy that meshed _perfectly _with a timeline they were still working to fully establish. The fact that he’d been found wandering around in the immediate vicinity of many of those strange incidents had only stoked the curiosity of the head of the jurisdictional BPRD branch.

This regional director’s decision to then doggedly monitor every aspect of that child’s life after their mysterious wilderness ‘rescue’ has consistently yielded unexpectedly fruitful and interesting results. And because such a close eye is being kept on the subject of the ‘Myers Forest’ file, the recent confluence of events falls perfectly into the lap of an organization whose very moniker denotes that it specializes in the research of the paranormal.

Its darker facets and functions have been blocked or thwarted many times by an increasingly vocal and expanding majority within its ranks, but there is no Trevor Bruttenholm out here in the isolated, midwestern base. The fatherly old man had managed to keep the pyrokinetic Sherman girl under his wing (and thus, protection) when she’d come to the BPRD’s attention, and the soft-hearted scholar’s demonic ‘son’ had very recently pulled the same trick with the astounding Icthyo Sapiens creature that had originally been found in Washington D.C.

This ‘John Doe’ kid might not have the same raw, dangerous power of Elizabeth Sherman, or the visual oddity of Abraham Sapien, but there is certainly something _off _about him. Something that _must _be behind his mysterious origins or his inexplicable appearing and disappearing injuries.

Sure, the more altruistic, above-board branches of the BPRD would probably _love_ to get their hands on a kid this young, but _to what end_?The potential loss of all the research they could conduct just for the sake of letting some completely unknown little midwestern brat futz around doing nothing of worth or value for the next 11 or 12 years is _insane_.

Letting the boy keep running around under the radar would be wasteful to the highest degree. He’s seen the flawless school report cards and glowing remarks from the couple of meetings the foster parents have had with the teachers (several having been agents in deep cover): kudos to him, but there’re more than enough quiet, well-read kids out in the world already.

The fabric of western society will easily weather the loss of one more future scholar. _Especially_ if that person can create massive illusions overtop of huge woodland areas that also manage to fool cameras, satellites, and (the more easily fooled) naked, mundane eye.

What if the kid harnesses his other weird ‘ability’— or whatever that is— and ends up inflicting pain or injuries onto others at will? Or, hell: what if it’s the opposite, and his DNA holds the key to super-healing for humankind, since all his cuts and such heal quickly and completely?

Yeah— playtime’s over with this ‘boy from the woods’ fiasco.

With that conviction, the sandy-haired bureaucrat sighs deeply and begins making plans.Cold-chapped hands close an open manila folder before hitting the pause button on the VCR’s remote; an image of a darkening ring of bruises around a pale upper arm freezes on the dust-filmed tv screen.

Discreetly discarding a wad of flavorless gum amongst other papery detritus in a small wastebasket, the region head immediately gets to work on masticating another fresh stick of dark blue gum. As he then flips through his Rolodex towards a certain phone number, the middle-aged man’s thin lips turn up in an irrepressible grin that exemplifies preemptive duper’s delight.

It will be simple to make a ruinous report to the authorities of a suspected case of long-running child abuse— _especially_ with the existing wealth of evidence documenting the alleged effects of said abuse. The happy coincidence of a genuine, concerned third party having already called in just such a report— as unsubstantiated as it had later turned out to be— fairly recently makes his assured success all the more delicious, if a bit anti-climactic.

Handset up to one ear, feet up on the desk, and eyes closed, Marks listens patiently to the phone as it starts to ring.

*

The lady who ends up taking John away from his family this time isn't the one who has always done so in the past, and this new woman takes him to a place he has certainly never seen before. Their silent, serious chauffeur drives almost an hour away, out into the middle of the woods, but nowhere near where he’d lived as a young child with his father.

A grey, unremarkable building looms ahead of them, now, in the early evening twilight. Its outside is clean, but not well-maintained, leaving the forest and vegetation around it to slowly encroach onto its property. Hedges are overgrown, pathways are unkempt, and as he draws closer to the bland, unwelcoming structure, he sees that its facade is cracked or crumbling in a few places.

There are two or three letters missing above the entrance they walk through, but John easily pieces together that this must be the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, which is not like _anywhere_ he has ever gone while waiting to be sent to a new family’s house.

Then, the be-suited adults flanking him lead him along endless hallways and down a set of stairs where the lights, too, are somehow bland, even though they are bright. John wonders when he’ll get to go back outside to see those woods again, but the sinking, anxious feeling in his stomach and his keen instincts tell him that it will likely be a long while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Nuada this chapter (and from here on out)--promise. c:

After being 'acquired' by the BPRD, John spends most of his young life kept away from any outright positive or significant human interaction. He sees the Doctor most days of the week and the scientists pretty much every single day (provided he is awake, anyway, and not under some level of anesthesia for a procedure of some sort).

He grows up under fluorescent lighting and breathing recycled air, kept to a small room where the only thing he has to entertain himself are two large bookcases filled with books that cycle out every few months. It is essentially the only kindness that is afforded to him, save for the fact that he has his own bathroom— doorless though it is— in which to take care of his personal hygiene.

The scientists are utterly unable to unearth the secret of anticipating when John’s ‘strange affliction' will strike again, so, instead, they begin studying his susceptibility to _directly inflicted_ injuries.

*

John is nineteen years old when he tires of barring his mind from wandering into territory he’d previously made quite an effort to keep locked away. There is no major precipitating event that has him turn off his fairly well-attuned sense of moral boundaries and typically subdued mental exercises— he just sort of… stops fighting the ever-present press of dark thoughts that his inhumane living conditions inevitably inspire.

Frequently, he’ll wish that all the people that indifferently go about working on his body would feel an _ounce_ of what they’ve put him through— that it was one of _them_ lying prone on the frigid, metal table, fighting off shivers and feeling the unmitigated, throbbing ache of a healing wound that has barely been formally treated.

He often dwells on the recent discovery of how _profoundly satisfying _it feels to mouth off to the Doctor whenever he’s sat down across from him for a tiresome post-op or post-exam interview.

Actually, John had indulged in displaying just such a defiant attitude during a scheduled chat with the surgeon several days ago. As well-read as he is, uttering an acrimonious “fuck you” to the stoic older man when he’d least been expecting it had perfectly expressed his somewhat complex mélange of feelings at the time.

Now sitting against a wall in his quarters, John rubs his thumb over the smooth, newly empty span of skin between his right index and ring fingers and absently wonders how much force it might take to sever an entire hand from a person’s wrist.

In his estimation, it seems unlikely that the Doctor could still operate on patients if all _his _fingers were gone— especially if both his hands received the same ‘treatment’.

John is due to have the site of his own digital amputation observed tomorrow by regular staff members as well as the dour, old doctor and John feels his heart flutter with excitement at the prospect of _speaking_ _up _again: no longer is he a child, easily controlled simply by being told what to do by others because they hold an air of authority or are older than him.

Yes, he can _act_ complacent and go through the motions of what he has to do, but what’s to stop him from voicing his opinion?

As he clumsily shifts his right hand’s four-fingered grip on a worn copy of _The Hobbit_, his lips twitch up into an almost imperceptible smile that swiftly disappears as he more fully immerses himself in the text.

*

_ **Kingdom of Bethmoora, One Day Later…** _

With a wince, Nuada spits out the mixture of warm saltwater and an herbal healing rinse that he had been given earlier that day. Glancing at his tongue in the mirror above the bathroom’s basin, he again observes the thin, red lines that circle it close to the tip.

He had hoped that his soul’s other half would have already escaped whatever tortured existence they have been living in for the past decade or so, but after this latest incident, it is clear that they’ve not yet been so blessed by the gods: midway through the afternoon, while talking to his mother’s guard captain about perhaps delaying their longstanding weekly sparring session due to the recent, slow-healing injury to his middle finger, Nuada’s mouth had suddenly filled with blood.

After rushing past an alarmed Wink and to the nearest basin to spit out the golden, viscous liquid, lest he end up having to continuously swallow it, a healer had hurried over to help. Once the the fairly deep (but already healing) cut that ran perfectly evenly around the tip of Nuada’s tongue had been examined, the sympathetic dryad had treated his wound as best she could and had sent him on his way with a restoring salve and directions to avoid eating anything that evening.

With the sun now having set, and his family likely seated at the informal dining table in his mother’s quarters, the time seems right for Nuada to say his piece. He comes to stand behind the chair he would usually occupy, were he dining with them, and grips its back until the glossy, petrified wood creaks in his grip. An audible, half-inhalation through his nostrils is all that precedes his somewhat abrupt speech.

“Mother, Sister, I will no longer abide by this antiquated _impediment_ of a rule. I understand that tradition dictates that my soulmate— as the younger of our match— must reach out to me _first_, but the conclusion I am forced to reach is that they are somehow utterly incapable of doing so, or worse, are being maliciously hindered from doing so.”

His queen mother brushes back her honey blonde and persimmon red fringe from her eyes as she leans back in her ornate chair with a frown. Nuala politely turns sideways in her chair to regard him, her expressive face placid as she takes in his upset demeanor. (Their twin bond is severely watered down, which is natural considering that both of their younger mates are out in the world, but her brother feels so _strongly _about this issue that she is actually able to pick up on the broiling sense of upset he is vocalizing.)

“I do not know why, but I am already beginning to feel… _pulled _to them. It is technically far too early to intervene, but I wish to seek them out with the help of any resources that can be made available. Our bond is still very young in our people’s eyes, but I only wish to see to my soulmate’s safety and health, whatever the cost.

“These transferred injuries are not like mine, which are from sparring, athletic ventures, or legitimate battle with enemies: they are so precise and calculated that they could only be from… from some insidious form of _torture_.”

“Oh, Nuada…” his sister says, soulfully, looking worried (whether for Nuada or his future mate, he cannot tell).

Clenching his jaw at seeing such compassion from his twin, he stiffly awaits the response of the table’s _other_ occupant, coolly meeting his mother’s weighty gaze.

“My son, this is _very_ much out of line: I am not one for subverting tradition that has successfully served us for eons. _However_, I trust your intuition is as keen as it was back in wartime, and that any concern you bring forward must be a legitimate one.

“Most importantly, Gods know I, of all people, understand the significance of spending whatever time we are allotted on this plane with those we hold dear...”

With graceful, weapon-calloused hands, Queen Nethlenn puts down the napkin with which she has been gently dabbing at her mouth.

“Were he here, your father would have cautioned us against interfering with the natural ‘flow’ of events, but _I _know that it will do you no good to delay satiating your instincts any longer— especially if your theory is correct and your mate is somehow being barred from properly connecting with you.”

His mother’s pale, daffodil-yellow eyes soften, and there is a beat of silence before before she quietly clears her throat.

“Tomorrow morning I will send out the call for our best minds to address this task of utmost importance.”

Nuada quietly releases a tremulous breath and bows his head for a moment, relaxing his iron grip on the chair. He’d been prepared to go against his mother’s decision if it had not been made in his favour (however catastrophic _that _would have been), so this outcome is a relief.

His sister offers a small smile that conveys mountains of support for his cause as she stands and passes by him with a quiet “Good night— and good luck, Brother.”

Nethlenn moves to follow her example, brushing down her house gown and then placing one hand on Nuada’s cheek when he turns to face her.

The typically shuttered away pain caused by the loss of her mate— his father, King Balor— is clear to see in her eyes, and Nuada suddenly can’t even bring himself to utter the thanks he wishes to. A swell of wretched grief and aching loss suddenly stoppers his ability to express himself to his mother.

It’s not the first time it has happened to him— to any of them— but it _is _the first time it has happened in many years, even as he manages to breathe through the swiftly diminishing overwhelming feeling. With a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, bittersweet quirk of her lips, his mother presses a kiss to the lightly-stubbled cheek opposite the one she cradles, sensing his unspoken grateful sentiment. (After all, she, too, is intimately familiar with emotion that can derail one’s train of thought or intended action.)

“Now, I’m off to the day’s final meeting, Nuada, but you should spend some time meditating and focusing on your connection to your other half. Do sleep well, by the way, for there will be _much_ for you to do, tomorrow and every day until you find your mate.”

*

_ **BPRD Midwest Base, That Same Evening** _

After Lights Out at 2100 hours, John gingerly tries to relax his raw-feeling tongue— which is still missing its last 2 millimeters or so— and to put off the throbbing, stinging ache of it. Eventually, he exhaustedly falls into a deep sleep wherein he dreams of autumn red and gold leaves wreathing bone white limbs and tree trunks— the likes of which he almost imagines he’d seen once as a child. Something in his weary, flagging spirit is soothed by this vision in his subconscious, and he comes as close as he has in years to something approaching peace.

In the far-off distance, a man calls his name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well _gosh_\-- wonder who John's hearing call his name. ;o


	4. Chapter 4

_[[ Oh! I have ref pics for [**King Lugh**](https://imgur.com/a/Jdy2Fzk) ("Lou"), **[Queen Dierdre](https://imgur.com/a/wBcHDIh)** (who is supposed to have the darker/richer colouring of the 1st_

_version but the styling of the 2nd/3rd), and **[John/Ciarán](https://imgur.com/a/SEazXwI)** (with his true, Unseelie look)_ _]]_

* * *

It takes three short years (short to those in Nuada’s sphere, not to their imprisoned quarry) for them to pinpoint the exact location of the elf prince’s soulmate, even with only one side of the pair’s spiritual tether functioning at a high level.

There had been endless collaboration with scholars, exercises to strengthen and sharpen the bond, and more meditation than Nuada had done in his entire life up until the start of this search. And now, at the end of it all, he is here, at the forest’s edge near a mundane building on a secluded property.

The outside looks somewhat decrepit, but a few minutes of recon reveals it to be packed with human beings. Thus, instead of storming the building and alerting unknown numbers of guards and personnel of their presence, Nuada talks to the fae spell-sword loaned out by Bethmoora’s longtime allies, the Unseelie Court, about getting as close to their quarry as clandestinely as possible.

Nuada, the fae magic-wielder, and the head of the elven scryers guild all go over the next few steps of the slightly-altered plan while monitoring the nearby building whose crumbling facade reads ‘B.P.R.D.’. The scryer does one last check over the map they have brought with them before pinpointing where it is the Unseelie magic-wielder should aim.

With a nod, Nuada gets into a battle-ready stance while the sorcerer-warrior closes his eyes and chants under his breath, calling forth a ring of writhing, black shadows that surrounds them on the ground. Between one breathless moment and the next, they end up stood in the pitch-black quarters of what the Bethmooran prince can only assume is his mate.

The human— for that is what he appears to be, no matter that he smells like something completely different— is lying curled up atop a bare mattress. Nuada’s darkvision is not nearly as good as his fae comrade, though, so he is grateful when the willowy sorcerer simply ‘thins out’ the shadows in the room, leaving an eerie, sourceless sort of light instead.

Nuada’s mate awakens instantly when the light changes, and his wary eyes dart rapidly around the room, clearly unused to any interruption to his sleep at this time of night. (The months on end of sleep-deprivation techniques had ended in his pre-teen years, after all, just before they realized he had no control over any of his physical anomalies or purported ‘illusion powers’.) 

Tired though the half-naked young man looks, he is fully alert and is warily squinting at both of their very much _not _mundane appearances.

“Hello?” he says in a sleep-roughened voice that immediately charms the elven potentate, as wary as the immortal is of appearing too obviously enchanted.

“Good evening, and apologies for the sudden and late appearance. I am Nuada Silverlance, and I would like to offer you a way out of here, if you’re interested.”

The young man fully sits up in the bed, leaning back a bit, even, to really stare at what he can see of the elf prince. He replies absently with his own name as his expression slowly changes to one of disbelief.

“John— just John. And you’re… you’re who I see in my dreams?”

Wide eyes watch both visitors warily, and the nervous human fingers the thin chain around his neck, sliding the pendant back around to the front to rest on his clavicle from where it had fallen behind his back while he’d slept.

Nuada’s fae companion suddenly falters and almost steps backward, but Nuada chalks it up to his soul’s mate mentioning having been able to see him in his dreams, as perhaps that is an unheard of phenomena for bonded fae couples.

“Yes, I am,” he replies. “And we’ll be taking you back with us. Now, thi—’”

“Yes. _Please_,” the quiet voice cuts in, surprising the two late-night ‘visitors’.

“Well…” Nuada says, a bit taken aback at how quickly John had acquiesced to leaving this place with two veritable strangers.

The conditions here must be quite dire, after all, just as he’d has figured. That tacit confirmation sears a guilty hole in his conscience borne of his not having taken action sooner. Quickly, that turmoil is pushed aside, though, since a more important task of actually rescuing his mate from the aforementioned dire circumstances is still ongoing—there will be time for self-recrimination later, once John has escaped his prison.

Refocusing a split second later, Nuada quickly responds to his newfound mate, telling him that they will leave at once, as soon as all the human’s things are collected.

“Where do you keep your belongings?” he asks, peering at the spartan room, book-lined shelves, doorless bathroom, and bare mattress in turn.

“Don’t have any,” comes the simple reply at the tail-end of a yawn.

Between the answer and the missing digit he spies on a hand in a place that mirrors a ring of scars around his own, matching (but present) finger, the previously collected elf prince begins to feel his infamous temper awakening. A deep breath and a level-headed review of his mission helps him subdue the feeling, though, if only temporarily; already, they’ve lingered too long in this place.

“Alright. Then come.”

So saying, Nuada steps forward and offers his hand to the exhausted-looking man seated on the bed, gasping the moment their skin touches and triggers a warm feeling that begins to gently suffuse his body.

It’s truly happening— _he’s touching his_ _soulmate_, he realizes, with an utterly unjaded sense of wonder.

Suddenly, though, his mate sways dangerously to one side, and Nuada lets go of his proffered hand to instead brace his shoulder in case he swoons again. John’s eyes— seemingly greenish or bluish in the very limited light— quickly flutter closed and he sags in his grip.

“The prince!” the fae that is suddenly right next to them utters, nonsensically.

Nuada has little time to figure out why the sorcerer is worried about _him_ when it’s his _mate_ that has just collapsed, since the distant sound of a piercingly loud alarm begins to blare. The thin stream of steady light coming in from under the reinforced door to the room begins intermittently flashing red, too: they have clearly overstayed their welcome.

“_Now_, mage! We must leave!” He whispers harshly, gathering up his much-too-light, unconscious mate into his arms.

The fae sorcerer (who looks oddly pale) shakes himself out of his momentary stupor and nods with a grim face, dropping his hold on the room’s shadows and plunging them back into pitch blackness.

Nuada holds his breath when he both feels and smells a sharp influx of magic as the Unseelie sorcerer works in his element to make another faerie ring. Just like earlier, the trip punches all the air out of the Bethmooran elf’s lungs.

What he sees upon regaining his bearings, however, is confusing: they are not in the royal palace of Bethmoora, as planned, but in the throne room of the Fae Unseelie Court, for some reason.

The king and queen, who are engaged in a discussion with two advisors who stand next to their seated forms are also taken aback at the appearance of a random fae of middling rank (if exceptional skill), the Bethmooran Crown Prince, and a half-clothed, unconscious male in said elf prince’s arms.

Four well-armed, very tall guards step forward from various stations around the throne room and effectively surround the odd party, even though two are implicitly trusted figures.

“Just _what_ are you lot doing in here?” one of the advisors spits, rich cerulean skin flushing darker in anger. “We are conducting impor—”

Nuada readies himself to apologise profusely for the apparently appallingly incompetent sorceror’s mortifying mistake, but the mage himself speaks up, earning a deadly glare from the elven scion he unwittingly cuts off.

“Your Highnesses! Your Majesties! _Please_, I think… this man looks like— I thought it _cannot_ be, but _look_— he wears the _Seargragh_!’

Perplexed by the word he has never heard before, in spite of his fluency in many fae languages and dialects, Nuada glances down to see what the sorcerer could possibly be talking about. Atop the young man’s slowly moving breast the only thing that could be of import seems to be the pendant on the gold necklace that John had fiddled with earlier.

It is a simply unremarkable flat disc with a raised spiral upon it— one which suddenly begins to emit a pulsing blue-white light that makes him wince at its brightness.

“What…?” he marvels aloud.

In stunned silence, those present watch as the pale skin of John’s upper body rapidly begins to tint more toward a fae-ish grey hue. His long, chestnut brown hair— most of which messily spills over Nuada’s arm, but some of which lies on John’s bare chest— remains much the same, save for acquiring a supernaturally lustrous sheen of health. (The eagle-eyed king and queen spot a coal black patch of hair threading itself through the long locks starting from John’s hairline above his left eyebrow— a colour that runs through most highborn Unseelie.)

Then, the stifling field of magic that had surreptitiously cropped up completely vanishes, leaving a final moment of shocked silence before anybody thinks to moves.

It’s a wonder Nuada doesn’t lose his grip— literally_, _at least— when the half-forgotten sorcerer at his side throws himself down and cries out, “The Lost Prince!”

The blindsided elf _does_ however glower threateningly at an unknown fae in healer’s robes who attempts to touch his vulnerable mate after approaching at a run from the gigantic, arched doorways of the throne room. Her gunmetal grey dreadlocks swing to a stop when she halts at the sight of the aggressive display and defensive stance. Meanwhile, two of the nearby guards begin to close in (one stepping around the mage still lying prostrate on the floor).

Thankfully, the rising tension is quickly dispelled by the two fae monarchs who approach and decisively wave off the threatening guardspeople, subtly indicating that they and the healer should stand back a bit. Even the overdramatic spellsword picks himself up and slinks a few feet away to hover anxiously near the healer, who just looks concerned for the worryingly still figure in the Bethmooran potentate’s arms.

“Nuada,” Queen Deirdre says quellingly, clearly recognizing a fledgling soulbond when she sees one. “We only wish to help your mate: he is fae, so our facilities are especially well-equipped to bring him back to health again.

“Please— we have been without our little prince for so long, now, and your stubbornness could make it so that none of us ever see him _again_, if he succumbs to some yet unknown, untreated injury.”

The level-headed appeals cut right through Nuada’s unanticipated surge of instinctive protectiveness, and he blinks several times to reorient himself as he gradually loosens the overtight grip he’s had on John.

“… of course, Queen Deirdre. Healer, show me the way to your infirmary: I will carry him.”

Glancing to her king and queen first for permission that is instantaneously given, the lanky healer leads Nuada from the hall with two guards trailing just behind them.

“Leave. All of you,” the somber king softly intones, lifting his bearded chin and watching with dark, ultramarine eyes as his command is carried out.

When those first few, important figures finally leave their line of sight down a long hallway, the queen paces away for a distance before gracelessly collapsing back down into her throne when a sudden bout of tears swim in her eyes.

“He’s— we _found_ him, Lugh. Can you believe? Even after Colm left, the Fates managed give us back our little grandson, Ciarán, with his little locket still about his neck.”

Her husband is already wiping at his own tears when she looks over at him where he is perched impropietously, sitting sideways on the ornate arm of his own throne to fully face her from a closer position.

“When the letters stopped,” the middle-aged potentate chokes out, “I thought we would never see either again— especially when we felt Colm pass on. But now… it is a _miracle_— a cause for celebration, no? Our lost prince returned to us, and by his soul’s mate no less.”

Both fae chuckle wetly through slowly growing smiles, and eventually, the queen sighs before absently smoothing down the accumulated wrinkles in her long, slinky gown.

“Indeed: once he has recovered, we will have a feast in his honor and in thanks to the benevolent forces that guided him here. In the meantime, though? We will plot and plan for the more than justified vengeance to be sought from those who put him in the condition in which he arrived.

“It is clear he has seen pain— perhaps even torture. You saw those iron-wrought marks on his skin as well as we all did… I think he may even have had a finger removed.”

The very _thought_ of such a cruel and unusual punishment befalling her young grandson has her steadfast control slipping enough to see the shadows in the room begin to writhe and churn for several long moments, before settling down again as her temper levels off. 

“It must only have been through the early manifestation and strengthening of his elf-style bond with Prince Nuada that he was able to survive the loss of his father at so young an age. No other child could survive the sudden separation from their parent and their parent’s magic— not so far away from the Faelands.”

Lugh’s cobalt eyes meet hers and she feels a swell of similarly tangled emotions meet hers through the connection they have shared for over a millennium. The baritone rumble of his voice is quiet as he speaks, as there is no longer a need to be heard by anyone other than his wife who is only a few feet away.

“We have been blessed by the gods, indeed, to see Ciarán’s return _and _to gain a future son-in-law so clearly dedicated to his wellbeing. And so far as revenge, I am thankful that, much like Prince Nuada’s clan, we never signed on to that foolish notion to never wage war on the humans again. We must discuss the specifics with little Ciarán, eventually, of course, but in the meantime—”

Deirdre’s pale lavender eyes flash near white for a moment and she smiles a feral grin with elongated canines on full display, finishing her husband’s thought with ease.

“— we will put the word out to our troops: prepare to be mobilized and _soon_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prince Ciarán, y'all-- may he reign forever!...if he feels like it.  
______
> 
> Prince Colm, John's father, ran away from the Faelands because he wanted to escape the Unseelie way of life and how accepting darkness is a necessity to being able to rule. So he runs away to mundane territory, eventually siring a son who he decides to raise outside of the shadows of the Unseelie fae court, disguising both himself and his child as humans in case they are ever found out.
> 
> Alright, done expositing, for now...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dark!John pops up near the end, here. ;o
> 
> [This is a _super_ long chapter-- sorry! It was either cut it into 2 very lopsided chapters, or this. (I chose this. lol)]

John awakens to the kind of easy, warm comfort that he only just barely remembers from his early childhood.

The strangeness of it all almost immediately sets his heart hammering in his chest and generates a looming sense of anxiety that his slow-moving mind has trouble wading through. The plush fabric of a long-sleeved shirt of some kind brushes his wrists while he shakily runs his hands over sheets that are softer than nearly anything he’s touched in who knows how long.

If he is allowed to wear a shirt along with his basic sweatpants (usually for his allotted time in the gym), both are in the roughest, least comfortable fabric imaginable. And it’s not uncommon for the privilege of wearing clothing (besides his underwear) to be revoked if his behavior has been unsatisfactory— which it admittedly has been, as of late.

That factor just makes everything even _more_ surreal and suspicious.

An even more confusing part of this experience is definitely the bedding, though, since he has absolutely _never_ been allowed anything atop his bare mattress in all his time at the BPRD’s research facility. Trying to keep his breathing level gradually helps his galloping heart to slow down to a calmer rate over the next minute or so.

Once that initial burst of adrenaline begins to fade, John takes stock of how heavy his limbs feel and how long it’s taking for his brain to fire up to regular speed. Maybe they’d given him some new drug mixture that had knocked him unconscious, or perhaps they’ve cycled back around to trying different toxic substances to see if his slightly advanced healing factor has improved at fighting them off since the last time they’d run a few trials.

Before he finally musters up the resolve to lift his eyelids open just a sliver, he concludes that his absolutely off-the-wall odd fever-dream from last night must have been nothing more than just that— another of his frequent dreams about the fair-haired warrior with those arrestingly sharp, eye-catching features. Except that as he blinks squinted eyes, his blurry vision gradually begins to coalesce into full shapes that become a room that is unlike any he has _ever_ been in. 

The walls are a deep slate blue colour that gradually turn to a desaturated indigo as they approach the ceiling, which itself is… _amazing_ and _nothing_ like the one in his real life room, where the drab off-white ceiling tiles are marked with water stains between buzzing, halogen lights.

A domed ceiling made _entirely_ of a smoky glass or crystal (or _something)_ lets in the beautiful light of the full moon that sits in the middle of the nearly cloudless sky that is visible above and seems close enough to touch.

Inexplicably, the peaceful environment prompts tears to come to John’s eyes and again obscure his vision, but he can still feel the breeze from what must be a nearby open window. Sure enough, he smells the shifting mélange of several different flowers and plants’ scents, something he hadn’t known he’d been longing for so keenly until this moment.

Then and there, as his unshed tears begin to dry, the young man decides that if this _does _turn out to be a dream, he would hardly be upset, as it is by far the best dream he’s ever had. Hell, it might just be the best dream _anyone _could ever have.

Running his hands over the duvet’s impossibly supple fabric, again, but with careful reverence, John inhales deeply and finally gathers enough energy to try and sit up on his own. His gaze tracks down as he gets trembling arms, first underneath, and then slightly behind himself to push against the sinfully soft bed he is lying on.

“Young prince!” A voice exclaims from outside his peripheral vision, giving him quite a bad start and pulling a gasp from his dry throat as he whips his head around.

He looks past a polished ebony bedside table decorated with a tiny, potted red and gold-leafed tree (whose little limbs almost seem to wave gently at him) and towards an open doorway. (And what a mind-bending concept for _that _is, too, since the only time he tends to see an open door is when he Is coming or going from a room or operatory with the permission or company of authorized BPRD personnel.)

In _this _open doorway stands an unfamiliar person with a truly fantastical appearance: their (her?) skin is a desaturated indigo that contrasts with thick, dark grey tendrils of hair that are elegantly twisted back into a low ponytail.

Being accustomed to seeing only his clothing (however much he is allowed to wear) as well the scrubs and lab coats of the medical staff, he also finds this being’s long, draped robes to be very interesting. As the creature approaches, the shadows of the room seem to almost fade, leaving it bright enough for his oddly crisp vision to take in the black-lined navy blue robes that swirl around her with every step.

She ends up stopping a few feet away from his bed, likely noticing his mounting trepidation at the entrance of an interloper into his theretofore undisturbed, safe little corner of the room. The otherworldly creature bows deeply at the waist before straightening up with a nervous smile that bares slightly sharper-than average canines.

“Prince Ciarán,” she says, looking him straight in the eyes for some reason. “Does anything pain you, still? We did our best to ensure your utmost comfort upon awakening, but I gather that a physical examination would be unwelcome, at the moment, to determine how successful the queen and I were.”

Blinking once, John disconnects his gaze from hers, figuring that if a figment of his imagination is making him uncomfortable, he has the right to not address it, as he’s certainly done worse to the _very _real BPRD scientists in the past.

Sighing internally, John resigns himself to a less-than-fun rest of this dream, since it has just begun going sideways, as is proven by the nervous chatter still coming from the awkward, blue lady near his bed. Luckily, a dream person can’t exactly_ punish_ him for his insolence, so he simply hugs himself, pulls his legs in close while leaning back against the ornate-feeling headboard behind him, and resolutely turns away from the doorway and the strange woman standing nearby.

His gaze naturally refocuses on the large, open window through which he can see distant mountain ranges rising over night-darkened rolling hills of grass and the occasional cluster of squat trees. On the thin windowsill sit several more plants with a similar autumnal colour scheme as the one on his bedside table closest to the door. Some trail delicate, leafy vines over the sill’s edge and twist around in the intermittent breeze from outside.

“Your highness?” The willowy creature says once more, after an extended pause, still sounding perplexed.

John remains facing away from her, and she soon quietly exits the room, leaving him at peace again in his unconscious mind’s ethereal safe haven. He doesn’t move from his comfortable position until a minute later, when he rather suddenly becomes aware of an intriguing scent that has enveloped the air around him.

It’s almost familiar, somehow, but he can’t recall whether he’s actually smelled it before. Where he might have encountered this particular fresh, woodsy scent that is overlaid with a spicy muskiness is lost on him, since it’s probably been over a decade since he encountered anything outside of the sterile, recycled air inside the BPRD base.

With his curiosity quickly mounting, John turns his head and meets eyes with a stranger… except that he’s seen him before: the man with the pale hair and golden eyes stands nearby at parade rest and is gazing at him directly for the first time ever in one of these dreams.

Until this moment, it’s always seemed like John’s been given a detached peek into wherever it is this person is from. He’s been shown flashes of unbelievably tall white and green trees that are bigger around than any he ever imagined could exist. Other times, he’s seen pale, marbled ceilings next to high, windowless cutouts that show the aforementioned forest beyond pristine walls.

Sometimes, the man had been engaged in battle with unknown (and equally otherworldly) assailants, and at other times he’d appeared to be somewhere indoors while sparring with a recurring selection of people.

Right now, though, his unwavering, direct gaze is an almost tangible thing— in fact, _everything _is suddenly veering uncomfortably close to possibly being tangible.

“John?” the man says, clearly acknowledging John’s… ‘presence’ in a sort of jarringly anticlimactic way.

The fact that he seems to know his name isn't that odd, since he almost recalls _another_ dream where they'd _also _conversed in his quarters at the facility, but the memory of it seems hazy at best. Sucking in a hasty breath that is still invigoratingly pleasantly scented, the possibility or even _likelihood_ that this is all somehow _real _begins to really take root, dredging up heavy layers of emotion that he smooths back down with a practiced mental hand.

“This,” John says aloud to himself, “is a _crazy_ lucid dream: you’re finally _talking to me_. What the_ hell _did they give me?”

His heart lurches and he firmly tells himself that now is not the time for an overreaction— not when there’s still one more reasonable explanation for everything that’s been happening. The exhausted former BPRD captive pulls up one of his tunic’s long sleeves to look for any healing pinpricks or perhaps bruises from having struggled against restraints because of an adverse reaction to a new substance. He entirely misses the increasing concern in the expression of the room’s only other occupant during this process, so focused is he on trying to discern fantasy from highly improbable reality.

Ironically, fixating on this new task turns out to only ratchet up the overall weirdness of whatever is going on.

“_Whoah_. This is… this is new,” he croaks, breath catching for a moment.

The bewildered fae presses down on his blatantly _grey_ forearm and finds his skin to feel just like it usually does, if perhaps a bit softer. Eventually, he manages to tear his gaze away from his funky new melanisation and goes from muttering to himself to muttering at the concerned-looking male standing a polite distance away.

“Ironically, this keeps feeling less and less imaginary, for some reason. Only… the way you’ve given me uninterrupted time to freak out kind of indicates you’re maybe about to tell me something that’s a bit harder to deal with than my having a skin colour firmly outside anything in the human spectrum. Unless I _am _hallucinating…”

Reflexively, John pulls his lower lip into his mouth for a quick second when the handsome elf-guy approaches his bed slowly. With a flinch, though, the BPRD escapee raises a hand to press against the sudden sting of his lip— he’d somehow cut it on his tooth, it feels like. Looking at the shocking dark lilac of his blood on his fingers and feeling something as mundane and recognizable as pain helps him sort of resign himself to how very _real_ this all feels.

It starts to get weird _again_, though, when he refocuses on the blond, sharp-edged elf who’s now only an arm’s length away and is _also_ wiping blood from his own lip (on the same side and everything), if only in a honey-gold colour.

The handsome older male licks his dark lips to get rid of the last of the blood, takes in a short breath, and then speaks.

“You are in no way having any sort of hallucination, John. I am exactly as real as you are, and furthermore, so long as one of us draws breath, so too shall the other.”

The phrasing is very specific and peculiar enough that it takes John aback for a moment.

“I— oh?” he stutters, watching stately features almost _wince_ for a moment.

“That… was not as elegant a formal introduction as it could have been— let me begin again. I am Prince Nuada Silverlance of the elven kingdom, Bethmoora, and I planned and facilitated your rescue from the inhumane ‘BPRD’ facility. It is by far my greatest regret that this did not happen sooner— and your grandparents feel the same way, I am sure.”

John perks up, sitting forward and pinning the stranger with a gaze more intense and intent than any he has used thus far.

“My _grandparents_?” he asks sharply.

He would have been a very young child at the time, but he_ knows _he would remember his father making mention of any grandparents, as isolated as they’d been from other people. Having never known his mother, or heard his father speak of her, he’d never even thought to ask after her or any of _her _relatives until the opportunity to do so had passed along with his only parent.

A small smile tugs at darkened lips and Nuada moves even closer, almost as if unaware he is doing so— as though he is magnetically drawn to his bedridden companion.

“Yes— _your grandparents_. They will be here momentarily, John. They would be here already, if not for a few unavoidable tasks that have become paramount.

“This is a difficult situation for you, I’m sure... and a surreal one, as you’ve said, so thank you for humoring me so far with your attention. Our time alone is very limited, though, as you have two anxious grandparents who have been waiting to meet you for a _very_ long time— far longer than just since you arrived here.

“While there’s time, I will, of course, fill you in on the other basics that you are missing: the ‘Who, What, Where, When, and How’, if you will.”

John clears his throat before he answers cautiously with an “Alright. Sounds good, but what’s the catch?”

Consciously avoiding biting his lip again while he awaits the prince’s answer, he glances down at the alabaster hand that Nuada seems to have unknowingly laid on the bed’s edge, close to where John’s foot rests now that he has stretched his legs out again. A dark ring of scars at the base of the elf’s (very much intact) right middle finger _perfectly_ matches the placement of the neat little circle of flat flesh that marks his own missing right middle finger.

Several loosely connected suspicions that have been floating around in the back of his head begin to finally fit together and almost make some semblance of sense, and his heart beats faster as he looks back up into perceptive eyes that seem to know exactly what he was observing.

“There is no ‘catch’, John, but once you have the bare bones of the situation, the rest of the beast will still need fleshing out. I don’t particularly like prevaricating, so allow me to be straightforward: are you prepared to hear _everything _right now?”

John uses one more moment to really take in the confident but oddly caring gaze that remains on his person. He inhales the fresh night air and curls his toes and fingers in the unbelievably soft bedding surrounding his weary body before firming his expression and then nodding once, decisively.

Nuada’s shoulders loosen from their somewhat rigid posture at the gesture**.**

**“**Well then, welcome to the Unseelie Court’s secondary palace in the northern Faelands. I spearheaded the years-long search for you by way of the fledgling soulbond we share, and as a result of the rescue mission, you’ve been discovered to be the long-lost son of a runaway fae prince. You were assumed dead until yesterday, when we made an unplanned stop in the court's throne-room.”

As the information keeps coming, John’s mouth drops open, but the elf hardly pauses his expositing, short on time as they apparently are.

“Those were the basics, as promised. Now, I’ll try to be quick about the more complicated parts, since elven culture is new to you...”

*

John’s head is _spinning_, and he can only half-blame it on the bone-deep level of exhaustion bearing down on him more heavily with each passing minute he spends sitting upright.

Thankfully, Nuada, who remains at his bedside (now at his left shoulder), readjusts a number of pillows so that the weary fae can comfortably slump down into them as he wrestles with the wealth of information that has been dumped on him today.

The Unseelie Queen— _his_ _grandmother_— concludes her introductory conversation with him in a tone soft with warm regard, but steely with resolve. His grandfather, who looks equally as middle-aged and non-grandparently, stands just behind her, his dark eyes displaying a level of passion equal to his wife’s.

“As you are our crown prince, Ciarán… _John_, the atrocities that have been committed against you are tantamount to a declaration of war. Vengeance will be had, of course, but as you are recovering from the drain of your glamour fading and have been advised to remain abed for quite some time, there is just one related matter to be discussed.”

Coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with Dierdre, Lugh resists drawing any closer to his grandson, not knowing how well his proximity will be tolerated as he finishes saying his piece.

“Would you like to personally oversee the hunt of your captors and their ilk? If so, we will, of course, wait for you to fully recuperate before making any major moves.”

The long-lost fae prince shifts the loose end of the plait his long hair is in so that he can fiddle with the golden pendant he now knows his grandparents had sent to his father as a gift for a newborn grandchild they would not end up meeting for two long decades. His mind flashes at lightspeed over the innumerable medical procedures and scientific ‘experiments’ he’s endured over the majority of his life while living as a ‘guest’ of the BPRD. His old thirst for vengeance by way of blood shed by his jailors slowly rears its massive head.

With his formerly-hopeless wish finally in reach, a delectable warmth blooms in his chest and he feels something soothing and dark unspool within him that suddenly has his eyeteeth feeling overlong in his closed mouth again. Savouring the new sensation— one that falls evenly between anticipation and relief— he leans forward in interest, listening to his grandmother as she tries to gauge where he stands on the issue at hand.

“From what Nuada has revealed of his own mirrored wounds and from what was unintentionally Seen when scanning you for further injuries after your arrival, it would be understandable if you do not have the stomach for any of this.”

When Nuada seamlessly joins the conversation, his body language is just as non-threatening as the others’ towards his mate, but he is similarly utterly unable to conceal the fiery intensity behind his golden eyes.

“I and your family would see humankind decimated and driven back to the dark, small spaces at the Earth’s outskirts, again. Is such a cause one that you’d like to champion?”

Heather grey fingers release their death-grip on whisper-soft bedding, at last.

John finally heads off any further longwinded, flowery language with as succinct an answer as his hoarse voice allows, a supernatural flash of a smoky black colour stealing over his moss green eyes for a moment.

“_Yes_, very much so— and _I want to help_.”

_FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then 'Step 4: ...Golden Army?' Anyway, no solid plans to come back to this AU-- _especially_ when it was painstaking getting this much written and edited. oof. (I actually cut 2,000+ words from this before my final edit. hahaha)
> 
> Anyhoot, hope you had fun!!
> 
> *  
Come check out [my writing blog](https://dovahdoes.tumblr.com/), where I post early fic snippets and keep you updated on what i'm working on in what fandoms!
> 
>   
Kudos and comments are love: feel free to leave me some, kind readers~. (ღˇ◡ˇ)~♥


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